Ravens night
by Georgius
Summary: What seems dead might just be sleeping. And forgotten things can rise again


"Putting them back into arena, well that is stupid idea if I ever heard one. I mean besides the obvious moral problem it poses it is just stupid."

Old man has been talking ever since he left the Presidential party before the new Hunger games.

This was not the first time he stated his view of presidential policy in such loud and straight fashion, a fact which has not gone unnoticed.

"I mean, you can force people to work until they fall, yes you can. You can spit in their faces, but doing both at the same time?

That is just suicidal. And to make matters even worse no one buys that shit in the first place. I mean, people can still read right?"

Old man was getting more and more agitated. His hands were clenched into fists and muscles on his neck were spasming.

"If it at least provided a spectacle, then one could call it a crazy whim of a bored man, I mean still stupidity but at least something.

But this won't even entertain anyone. Mark my words, this is like pouring gasoline on raging fire."

Driver was nervous, listening to so much treasonous talk was not good for ones career or lifespan.

"We are not driving home are we?" Said the old man with a curious expression on his face.

"No sir, the President ordered your execution sir." The old man chuckled. "Of course, I expected as much. Did he even bother to write the verdict?

Or is it just some general offense? No, no, wait. It's high treason isn't it?" Driver nodded, almost as if he was sad or burdened by regret, almost.

The car stopped in a dark courtyard. All windows were dark, people were busy celebrating new Games.

Man dressed in simple white uniform opened car door, letting the old man out.

The driver noticed, with a certain surprise, that Old man is moving in a way not exactly befitting his age.

Almost as if he was younger or as if great burden he was carrying was lifted from his shoulders.

"Sir you were tried for High treason and found guilty. By order of President Snow you are to be executed for crimes against Capitol and Panem.

The court agreed that, because of your advanced age, you will be given an extraordinary privilege of last words. Before the sentence is executed."

Old man stood in the courtyard, shoulders squared, almost as if he was not afraid at all of his impending doom.

"Well" he said with nonchalant smile "first of all, let me tell you how deeply sorry I am for what is about to happen. I know you didn't choose this.

You were drafted from District 2 and since your birth all you did was follow orders. I don't blame you for what you are about to try."

Old mans smile disappeared from his face. "But I am still disappointed, not in you, but in young Snow. I thought, foolishly. That he was a little bit more competent than this. Not that it would matter in grand order of things." Executioners shivered, as if it had suddenly got colder.

Or as if Old mans defiant and insane words struck some cord of their hearts.

After all, they were used to fear of their victims. They were used to begging, pleading, smell of urine and crawling on the ground. But not to victim standing and calmly implying to be invincible.

Old man continued as if suddenly reminded of situation. "But enough chatting. I would like to draw your attention to the trees in this courtyard and the roofs of buildings surrounding it. Well really I would like you to look at what is sitting there."

The guards looked, first in confusion and then in growing terror at places the man pointed at.

The roofs, the treetops, parapets, lamps even their cars were covered with dozens, no hundreds of ravens. Sitting silent, motionless, almost as if not alive at all.

Their beaks and claws shining like if made from steel, their eyes slightly glowing.

And then they moved. Hundreds of wings, claws and beaks forming a cyclone of madness and pain.

Tearing skin and flesh, plucking out eyeballs, digging into insides of still living victims. The courtyard was filled with screams of anguish.

Soon all that remained was sobbing of one remaining victim and sounds of bones being cracked by steel beaks.

Old man walked to the driver. Now not looking old at all, rather aged and sharp as a well-maintained weapon.

His clothes torn and thrown away revealing skin and muscle underneath, decorated with several simple tattoos.

Now, gripped by absolute horror, the driver noticed a pattern on the old mans skin. A pattern from ancient history he half-heartedly memorized in school and didn't think of since then. "No!" He shouted, as if denial would help him. "That thing is dead, forgotten. What in the hell are you?"

Old man shook his head as if disappointed. "It is not dead. No, just sleeping, deep under Cheyenne, waiting for its time. And soon it will wake. Even as we speak the rebels are closing in. All I need to do is wait for them to take defenders down. It's almost too easy."

Almost apologetically, Old man continued:"You understand I can not let you live. Also, I, unfortunately, need stem cells in your bone marrow."

Few short screams later, Old man emerged from the courtyard, walking towards mountains, humming old tune, on his chest stars and stripes...


End file.
